Gul ned Gwaedh
by TekaWolf
Summary: I've been having these dreams all my life, dreams of another time and place. Dreams of a city of glass and metal and man with eyes like the winter sky. Dreams in which I'm a healer, a fighter, and always in such danger...I have never felt so alive than in my dreams. But...what if...they are not dreams at all. What if, they are memories?
1. Prologue

Since the beginning of his remembrance Bilbo Baggins had been gifted with the most extraordinary imagination. His dreams, of a world built on stone and buildings of sky-reaching metal and glass and brick gave way to games just as strange upon his waking. Ever a Tookish child for all he was a Baggins he would often be found in the forests searching for elves. However it was his games when he was not out among the trees that brought the occasional voicing of parental concern. He would call himself a doctor and with him an imaginary friend the Great Detective, and together they would solve all the little mysteries that a child could dream up.

His strange dreams and games would have been harmless enough but for the nightmares. On rare occasion the child would awaken with horrific screaming, howling strange words in no discernible language. Nothing done for him helped those nightmares, and it was a blessing that he did not remember them upon waking, but for fleeting impressions of soft, mad voices and blasts like fireworks.

He grew older, the nightmares grew less and the games faded away into the sedate adult life of a properly respectable hobbit. Despite the peace and tranquility he always felt as if something was missing from his life. There was an ache in his mind and soul that nothing he thought to do could fill. And so he grew used to the sensation of far off longing even as he grew ever more rooted and ever more restless at once. It felt often as if the world was pressing in around him, holding its breath and waiting for something significant to happen.

Then came Gandalf and the dwarves and with them the promise of adventure. But he was set in his ways by then, and not even the faint stirring that this was something he needed to do was enough to convince him to agree to be their burglar that evening. He woke to the house as silent as a tomb, a silence that stirred something deep within him and truly frightened him as much as any of his nightmares ever had and set off a sense of loss that had him reeling. Perhaps he should have gone on that adventure after all...

In that moment of indecision a voice, a flicker of a long forgotten dream or memory, whispered through his mind. The language was of none spoken in Middle Earth and yet he understood for it was the language spoken only in his dreams.

'It could be dangerous...' The deep baritone pounded through his head as the world crashed down around him, that longing flared in his chest, hot and alive and pulling him to the east. He gave no thought to resisting the call, only to following, to finding what would fill the aching hole he had lived with since birth.

The journey was hard, surprising him at every turn with how woefully inadequate he was. It roused a smoldering anger in him, realizing that he could not, did not know how to do things that at some base part of him he felt he should not merely know how to do but should have been easy. But he learned, and found his dreams growing more clear, more vivid, more detailed, with each passing day.

The dreams felt like memories now, and he would often awaken to the disorienting realization that he was not a human man, not battle worn and healed from injuries that in this world would have killed him...and that he was alone. For always his dreaming was with another, a man with eyes the color and chill of a winter sky, skin elven pale, curls black as night tumbling around high cheekbones and thin lips, and that voice that had summoned him right out his door. A man with an intellect and wit as keen as an elven blade. It was disorienting to remember all that, and to wake surrounded by dwarves.

He said nothing of these dreams, nothing of the pull to the east and the ache in his heart that grew stronger with each passing day. Not a word to the dwarves who were slowly gaining his trust and friendship, nothing to Gandalf who already had it, and nothing to the elves that looked upon the ever distracted hobbit with too knowing eyes. He did not see the way they all watched him, members of his own party included, for ever his eyes were drawn to the east, towards the pull in his soul that gave him the needed courage to go on.

After his first taste of battle and blood his dreams abruptly changed. The world that he thought he had imagined erupted into such violence that he knew he could not have hoped to have created it all himself. There was a strange comfort in the knowledge that the place in his mind was not pristine, a comfort that he took from realizing that he could not have dreamed up that world that was so very very real. Yet the violence made the man he was in his dreams all the stronger, a strength that did not carry over to the waking world, did not carry over to his shaking hands upon his small sword's hilt. The part of himself that was slowly feeling more and more like the man from his dreaming world despised the weakness.

It took the near death of Thorin to throw open the final lock on the door in his mind separating dreams from reality. The dwarf he had befriended, come to respect, was thrown upon the ground, dazed and bleeding, dark hair obscuring his face from the hobbit's angle. Bilbo saw another in his mind, the pale eyed man that haunted his dreaming world. Protective fury roared hot within him, drowning out his fear. With hands entirely steady, he hauled himself up the tree and charged the orc stalking towards Thorin. The charge and a lunge gave his small body enough momentum to drag the larger creature to the ground.

The air crackled with flame and within him something snapped into place, and drowned out Bilbo Baggins. It was John Watson in his hobbit's body grimly driving his sword through the orc's heart with a surgeon's precision. It was John Watson that leapt without backward glance from the creature whose life he had just taken to face the rest of the pack to protect his fallen friend; John Watson who stared down Azog the Defiler, realized that as a tiny hobbit with a tiny sword he had no chance but never once let the fear show or his blade waver.

That moment of perfect clarity was shattered by the arrival of the eagles. No longer John Watson, but not entirely Bilbo Baggins either, though more the latter than the former. But his hands did not begin to shake again and Bilbo stood his watch over Thorin until the dwarf had been borne away. His turn came, and he barely had time to sheath his blade before surprisingly gentle talons bore him up and deposited him on the back of yet another eagle.

He was grateful for the length of the flight and that the distance and the beat of the greats bird's wings forestalled any conversation between members of the party. It gave him time to think, time to try to sort out his mind. He remembered now, remembered the whole of another life as a doctor, a soldier, a friend and flat mate to the man who haunted his heart and shared his dreams. It was impossible, this world of fantasy and that world of technology and yet...both worlds, both lives, both realities were real, as real as the feathers beneath his hands, and the bruises he could feel forming.

'….When you have eliminated that which is impossible, all that is left, however improbable, must be the truth.' that haunting sonorous voice echoed painfully though his mind. He clenched his hands into the eagle's feathers, burying his face in the soft warmth as memory coursed through him.

Sherlock...He'd been missing Sherlock. As if in response to being acknowledged the pull to the eastern lands flared, the ache in his chest responding in kind. In a daze he responded to the pain, not thinking as he grasped the lifelong ache in both mental hands and pulled it to him, telling it to stop, he knew, and if Sherlock was in this world he would find him. The pain stilled, and subsided back into the longing, and faintly, just faintly, anticipation before going dormant again. Shock flickered though him and he decided that it was high time to talk to Gandalf.

He did not have time to further examine the feeling as his eagle landed rather heavily and he was forced to make a quickly controlled exit or be dumped on the ground as it ducked its head. Immediately he looked to Thorin, Gandalf hovering over the unconscious dwarf and winced, a hand going to his head as medical knowledge centuries ahead of its time crashed into his brain. The sensation quickly faded and he was more Bilbo than ever as the dwarf regained consciousness, dragged himself upright, and confronted him with rather startling results.

It was a good deal later that evening before Bilbo got the chance to speak privately with Gandalf. If anyone could help him make sense of what seemed to be a past life, of his dreams and of the pull to the east it would be the wizard...as he wasn't even sure if Sherlock existed at the moment. He was tired of trying to figure it out, tired of trying to bear it alone now that he remembered half a lifetime spent at Sherlock's side. Even still, he waiting until the rest of the party was asleep before approaching the wizard; he sounded mad enough without bringing the dwarves opinions into it.

"G-Gandalf?" Bilbo began quietly, unsure of how to approach the subject that weighed so heavily on his mind.

The gray clad man turned and his pale eyes gave the Hobbit a brief glancing over before he spoke. "Yes, Mr. Baggins? Is something on your mind?"

The hobbit took a deep breath, then sat down beside the large wizard. "I've, um... erm, I wanted to talk to you... about when I was a boy..."

"Ah, yes," murmured the wizard, "I recall. I said before, I remember a child who longed for adventure. I dare say you've found it."

"Yes," Bilbo replied, laughing a bit, though that laugh had a touch of apprehension in it. "But... There's... There is something that I never told anyone about... And only Mother and Father, and, well, my grandfather, knew about it, really. It was... a bit embarrassing for our family to speak of it."

The wizard tilted his head, and leaned forward. The hobbit had his attention.

"Well," Bilbo went on, "When I was a lad, I had these... dreams. Every night, when I'd go to sleep, I would... dream of a different life. A life full of adventures, and in an... an entirely different world than this one." He closed his eyes, and as he spoke, the images of his dreams began to mold themselves in his head. "There were tall spires. Man-made buildings made of glass and metal, gleaming in the sun. A city- a large, sprawling, city, both ancient and brand new all at once- cut in half by a mighty river, and I lived there. I lived in that city."

"Hmm," mumbled Gandalf, as he took this in. "And...what was this city called, Bilbo? What name did you give it?"

"London." The name came out as if it was the most basic of knowledge. "London- old London Town- In the 'United Kingdom'. And my home was in a brick building at the heart of it."

"That sounds quite fantastical, my dear Bilbo," Gandalf said, though he did not sound as condescending as his words might imply. "And you said you had adventures? A United Kingdom sounds very peaceful to me."

"It- It could be but it wasn't," Bilbo told him. "So often, there were mysteries- missing people, robberies, attacks, murders, plots, schemes- All needing to be solved, and- and I- 'I' was in the thick of it. But... I... I wasn't 'me', me. If you understand."

The wizard nodded yes he did, then the Hobbit went on. "I was," he said, "I was always a man in these dreams. Taller than I am now, but still smaller than most. And I was brave. Oh, Gandalf, I'm so brave in the dreams!" he tells him with his heart beginning to pound faster as he recalls. "I'm a warrior in them- a soldier! A sharp-eyed marksman, and clever! A healer, too! I knew how to make the sick better! I could heal, but also..." His excitement began to dwindle. "I could kill."

"But...?" Gandalf prompted.

"But," Bilbo said, "I was trying to save people, as a soldier. And I only killed again once. To save my friend."

"You had a friend?" Gandalf asked, intrigued.

"Yes," Bilbo answered, his lips curling up in a smile. "And he... Oh, he was amazing. His intellect couldn't be measured, and his eyes could see EVERYTHING, Gandalf, they could see the smallest bit of detail and use it to tell a person their whole life's story, and he could figure out any puzzle or any mystery with just the smallest amount of information and clues. And," he let out a soft, snorting laugh through his nose, "He was an arrogant, egotistical, and oh-so annoying man, but I... I killed for him. And I was willing to die for him too. Because he made me feel alive. He was my best friend."

"And what name did this friend have?" Gandalf inquired.

"...Sherlock," the hobbit answered, the name said with affection and deep reverence, and a touch of longing that he always carried with him echoed in his voice. "Sherlock Holmes. The Great Detective, and my dearest friend."

Gandalf didn't respond right away. He looked at the little halfling with curiosity and interest before he let words come forth. "And you've had these dreams all of your life?"

"They were fragments, when I was young...but as we have continued on this journey they got stronger, clearer, something always pulling at me." Bilbo stared into the fire as he answered, "It got me out my door you know, those half forgotten dreams and that pull..." He trailed off.

"Bilbo?" The concern in the wizard's voice snapped the hobbit back to the present.

"I don't think they were dreams Gandalf." there was the faintest little tremor in his voice that he studiously ignored, "When I was protecting Thorin...I was that man from my dreams, I was John Watson and I was not afraid at all." He looked up at the wizard who was watching with wide eyes.

"What if...what if its Sherlock, pulling me to him? What if all of this is real and true and he's waiting for me? Is that even possible?" there was the real fear, that just because he felt it was real, just because he felt it was true, didn't mean it was.

Gandalf took a few puffs on his pipe before answering, his voice low and measured in the face of the hobbit's anxiety. "There are a great many stranger things than a soul returning for another life though it is a rare thing indeed...rarer still to share that privilege with another as you may be doing with this Mr. Holmes."

The wizard met the hobbit's gaze, "Perhaps, if you are truly sharing dreams with this man you can ask him yourself?" there might have been some sort of insincerity in his voice but Bilbo nodded.

"Sherlock would know better than me at any rate... Probably figured everything out by now." to the wizard's chagrin Bilbo seemed to have already made up his mind. The hobbit stood.

"Thank you Gandalf, Ill let you know how it went in the morning." Distracted yet again Bilbo went back to his sleep roll and settled down. If everything was real, and he didn't think his heart could take it if he made all this up, he would know as soon as he fell asleep, for everything would have changed now that he remembered it all. Despite nerves, it did not take long for the exhausted hobbit to drop into unconsciousness, and whatever awaited him there.


	2. Chapter 1

Even though Bilbo was half expecting it, it was still something of a shock to open his eyes after closing them for sleep to find himself laying on his bed in 221B as John Watson. It felt different this time, real and solid and he slowly got to his feet and marveled that there was no disorientation from the rather drastic height difference. Hesitantly, taking in everything in a way that he knew would make Sherlock proud, he padded from the room, only to stop dead in the doorway.

"I was wondering when you were going to get here." Sherlock was sitting back on the couch, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His pale eyes were focused with a slightly predatory intensity on John, who realized after a moment why the words sent a shiver through him. He didn't say 'get up' he said 'get here', and had seen John come in from the bedroom, not from outside. The man who was a hobbit in the waking world swallowed and barely stopped himself from toying with the hem of his jumper.

"Sherlock..." there was relief in the word that he couldn't quite hide, "We...ah...We need to talk." The half stammered statement merely gained him a raised brow and a slight tilt of the dark curled head.

"Yes. We do." The words held no inflection at all and John shifted uneasily at the stare. This was already going differently from prior dreams. A nervous hand ran through his hair.

"Just...Give me a moment...I'm having trouble thinking." Stalling for time for a moment as it really hadn't occurred to him that he would actually be talking to Sherlock. He slipped a hand into a pocket and froze briefly, feeling a certain ring that was very much out of place in the dream world.

He did not see Sherlock's eyes narrow and the pupils go slitted like a cat's before returning to normal.

"Sherlock, doesn't this...feel strange? Like...like things, sometimes day to day just goes too quickly, or things don't happen in quite the right order...?" He paused, hand still in his pocket, fingering the ring unconsciously.

Sherlock only smirked faintly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees.

"You mean the fact that we're both currently dreaming about our past life? The fact that we are sharing the dream is interesting, but not entirely surprising." His voice was clinical, and almost fascinated. John gaped at him, hand dropping out of his pocket, leaving the ring alone and taking a half step back.

"You...you know?" he knew Sherlock probably thought he was an idiot but at the moment he didn't much care, "You know what this is?"

"There was a bit of disorientation when I woke up from the last dream, but considering all of the facts it wasn't too difficult a conclusion to come to. Are you still coming?" The abrupt topic change nearly threw John off, but the fact that Sherlock wasn't blinking at all was worse.

"Yes. Yes! We get closer every day...I mean 'I'. I'm getting closer. To the mountain...just me." stammering over the words like the hobbit he was on waking and knew he'd completely failed to fool Sherlock at all. The other man raised a brow.

"Really John, you know better than to try to lie to me." He sounded amused and John let out a breathless laugh, hand flickering into the air as he spoke.

"You have no idea how," He paused and let out a deep, long breath, "Relieved I am that you know too! And that..." John sighed and trailed off, beginning to pace, not noticing as his hair began to get longer and curl, nor the way his ears started to point, "I thought I was going mad!"

Sherlock merely watched him pace, appearance not changing at all as his pale eyes picked out the changes.

"Yes, reliving one's past is...traumatic, if you don't realize what is going on. I am glad you do remember and this was not merely a dream." The words might have been warm but there was nothing in the tone, which was entirely normal for Sherlock. John tossed his arms up to emphasize his point.

"I just couldn't figure it out!" he snorted, "And I thought I was clever after that bloody frightening riddle game." He was so busy pacing he didn't notice that his shoes no longer fit as hobbit feet attempted to replace human ones, curly hair poking up from the tops.

"I think you might want to remove your shoes John." Sherlock's voice was dripping in amusement as he cataloged the changes, "Riddle game?"

John froze and looked down at his feet, the color draining out of his face. "Oh no..." he stooped and pulled his shoes off before looking in the mirror over the fireplace with a groan. His ears had gone entirely pointed at the tips, hair tumbling around his face in loose curls, feet hobbity as well, but human otherwise.

"Oooooooh no...This-this isn't good. This is not good at all." He took another long, despairing look in the mirror, "I look bloody ridiculous like this...Wearing this anyway." He winced and turned back to Sherlock, looking rather distressed and feeling a great deal more like Bilbo than John at the moment.

"More used to my waistcoat and cropped trousers..." He trailed off at the look on Sherlock's face. The other man was staring at him like a puzzle to pick apart, pinning him with his gaze.

"What are you?" His deep voice held a sharp edge that brooked no room for any kind of evasion. With another wince and a sigh and a glance down at his feet John answered, voice small.

"A hobbit." John expected recognition at once, but there was none, even as Sherlock stood and stalked around him.

"What is a 'hobbit'?" There was no mistaking Shelock's 'I have a new' puzzle tone.

"I...they're humanish, pointed ears, curly hair, big fuzzy feet obviously..." he rolled his eyes at Sherlock's expectant stare, "And...small."

"How small? Dwarven height or shorter?" the detective was circling him slowly, movements fluid and catlike and ignoring John's obvious sudden mortification.

"Smaller..." The statement got him a slow blink.

"How much smaller? And thinner in stature as judging by your first inclination to describe as human...ish?" Sherlock was sounding, well, rather fascinated, much to John's chagrin.

"As a hobbit I am just over three feet in height..." shakes his head slightly, "And not really. Hobbits usually have a bit more bulk on them. But given that I've been going between running for my life and climbing every mountain and hill possible...I've lost a good bit of weight."

Sherlock nodded, filing that information away before sitting back down on the couch. His fingers steepled in front of his mouth again.

"Tell me about hobbits." John knew that tone, Sherlock wasn't really asking and he wouldn't get out of answering. He sighed, looking back down at his feet and then back up to his former flatmate. The words came slowly at first.

"Well. Ah... They... are creatures that enjoy... very good, very rich foods, as well as relaxing things like knitting. And fishing, for those not afraid of rivers, as well as nice, relaxing walks in the forests of the Shire. They live primarily there, by the way. The Shire. It's a place with... lots of green hills and pathways, and, um, they live in Hobbit Holes." his tone was musing, "Mostly, anyway. Some build homes, but...Primarily holes." Sherlock tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

"I assume 'hole' is as much a misnomer as calling a dwarven dwelling a 'hole'? and you said you were a hobbit, why are you saying 'they' instead of 'we'?" At his sharp tone John gave him a surprised look.

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Oh...I...didn't notice..." To avoid Sherlock's continued staring he continued describing hobbits, "Anyway, hobbits, ah, no the hole's aren't... they're not dank, or wet, or smelly or anything. They're... They're tunnels that are dug, and made nice and round- usually inside of decent sized hills. And then plaster, and sometimes wood are put in to help insulate the tunnels, and painted, or some places put up paper. Bag End has some papered walls. Ah, and then decorated, sometimes there's a nice hearth that has a chimney that leads up to the top of the hill." He shook his head with a slightly sheepish grin, "Sorry, rambling. Ah anyway, they're very, very comfortable dwellings. The one I was living in is called Bag End. Bag End, Under-Hill. In a small village named Hobbiton."

"Do carry on rambling John, I learn a great deal when people stop guarding their words." the smirk in Sherlock's voice was written on his face as well. The expression earned him a thin lipped frown that only made the other man's smirk go wider. Sherlock said nothing, merely waited and John relented with a huff.

"As I was saying, I lived in Bag End, Under-Hill, Hobbiton. Very nice village, not too large, but certainly the largest of them." He paused a moment, thinking back to the details that Sherlock would want to know, "There's a marketplace, to purchase usual things, like food, cloth, and sometimes farm animals- all bred smaller, of course. And then there's the tailor's shop, which isn't a Hobbit Hole, it's actually a wooden home with a thatch roof. But they're all shaped to be like the hill-made homes."

Another minute of contemplation before he continued, "And, ah... Bagshot Row. Bagshot Row!" A grin, " Ah, yes, that is the- the um, the road I live on. And down the Row is this family, they're called the Gamgees."

Sherlock listened in silent fascination.

"The Gamgees have been helping the Baggins' with their garden for years and years." He chuckled, "The oldest son, now, Gaffer, he's just barely out of his Tweens and he's already tending the garden." John stuck his hand in his pockets as he would were he Bilbo in the waking world, "Oh, he's a good lad. He's just as hard-working as his father, and already a good friend."

Pale eyes noted these changes, how his posture relaxed slightly, and how his speech patterns altered. Sherlock was careful not to draw attention to it, however, this was interesting.

"Tweens?" He kept his voice low and neutral so as not to startle him out of the state of mind the former army doctor had put himself into. John nodded and slouched further, still not noticing that he had taken a halfling's relaxed posture.

"Oh, that's... Hobbits mature very slowly. They go through their teens, and then after twenty, they're Tweens, and they're not real adults till they've reached the age of Thirty Three." John smiled again, still off in his memories. "Oh, I remember Gaffer's thirty-third. It was so much fun! I stopped in, and we went to the Green Dragon and had a few cups of ale. I even indulged and ordered some good wine." His speech and manner was hobbit at the moment, and Sherlock smirked to see some of the person he was in the waking world.

"If you're not careful you'll lose 'John' altogether in a moment. Though it would give me the proper opportunity to see you as you are now." He kept his voice neutral, but there was enough of a bite to startle his former flat mate right out of his remembrances. John blinked at him and promptly stood up straighter, his past military bearing reasserting itself.

"What?" John clearly hadn't even realized what he'd been doing, which Sherlock of course found even more fascinating.

"Your manner of speech changed, as did your entire way of holding yourself."

"It did?" John's tone held guarded surprise but he merely shrugged as Sherlock nodded, still staring at him.

"Oh...well...that's, really I can tell you about hobbits, and you at least know what I look like. This only...shorter." the discomfort was shoved aside as the former army doctor focused on Sherlock, "But what about you? You've not given me any hints to what you are...though I'm going to go ahead and assume you're going to be bigger than me." Mild irritation tainted the words.

"You'll know me when you see me, John." There was a note in his voice that gave John pause before he shook it off. That couldn't possibly have been what he thought is was, Sherlock Holmes was never uncertain about anything. Besides, there was something he needed to say, though his voice stumbled over the words as he did.

"...Sherlock, you don't... I knew... Somehow, all my life there... When I'm awake... I was... I kept looking for something. Kept... trying to find something more... But I got comfortable in that warm Hobbit hole, and the cozy chairs and... all those lovely books and everything... I had a home. A place to belong to... But something kept saying I was missing one thing. And I felt...out of place, because of it." He stopped himself from saying 'freak' just in time, though the amusement that flickered in Sherlock eyes told him the other man had heard it regardless. But no mocking came.

"You," the detective paused briefly before he continued on, "You were not the only one searching for something you could not give name to and could not find." Sherlock's voice was remarkably quiet, but in the silence of the flat it was easy to hear. John's gaze snapped around to him, eyes widening.

"You were...you were looking too?" His eyes widened even further as Sherlock's pale eyes tinted with gold for the briefest moment before the man turned his face from him.

"I have...been in this world a great deal longer than you...the ache, the sense of loss only grew stronger as time went on. It was maddening." He shook his head, eyes closing briefly as his voice rumbled out the last few words.

"Sherlock..." John's eyes narrowed at him, thinking perhaps he was an elf if he had been around that long, "Were you looking for me?" The 'you are a moron' look he got in return made him grin.

"Well clearly we were searching for each other you idiot. Do you feel the ache now? It's you I've been looking for for so very long." There was the expected relief in his voice, along with a slightly worrying possessive note that had John flushing just a touch and snapping to change the subject.

"You ah, asked about the riddle game?" The man flushed even further as Sherlock gave him a look that quite eloquently told him he knew exactly what he was doing but let him do it anyway.

"That I did." Eager for that look to go away John continued on quickly.

"I... Well, it's like this... I got separated by my friends...…." He expounded upon the whole of the situation with the malformed little creature that he had taken to calling Gollum due to the coughing sound it made...though he did carefully leave out the finding of the ring. Sherlock of course knew that he was hiding something but the fact wasn't entirely important at the moment and so he let the matter drop to pick up and worry at later.

"Your journey certainly has not been easy." John was sure he imagined the concern in Sherlock's voice. He shook his head.

"Wait until you hear the rest of it." And he told his tale from the beginning, from Gandalf fetching him from the Shire, to the trolls, being chased by orcs, the elves, all the way to the Eagles rescuing them.

"Glad we're down on the ground again though...Ah, Sherlock, I can't even begin to describe." He looked away, thinking on his comrades, "Thorin really is everything that a King could be. And to be a part of this company it... It elates me." he hesitated, "B-but not as much as... as finding you again. As remembering you."

"Thorin..." Sherlock rolled the word around for a moment, then nodded, seeming to at least distantly recognize the name. Something was amusing him though, judging by the faint quirk of his lips and the glitter in his pale eyes.

"Do forgive me if I am less...excited about your new friends than you are." That faint little possessive note was back in his voice, though softened as John told him that he means more to him than the dwarves do, "I am...glad to know that you are truly back in this world and that soon my own searching can end." It clearly took some effort for Sherlock to get the words out and John nearly beamed at him. The former army doctor was about certain that his former flatmate was an elf now.

"Sherlock... I... I don't know what to do. It's easy to confide in Gandalf about it all, to ask him... I think he knows more about this sort of thing. But... Maybe I could talk to them? About you? When we meet you? It doesn't have to be so bad." Along with the certainty that Sherlock was an elf came the knowledge that his friend had been through hell and back in this new world they found themselves in. The question brought a raised eyebrow.

"Talk to him about what?" Either the genius didn't see the issue or he was deliberately avoiding it. With Sherlock and emotions it could go either way but there was no sense in pressing him about it.

"About... Never mind. Just..." He sighed, and after a moment of struggling shrugged and gave in to the impulse to take Sherlock's hand in his. Casual touch in the waking world was a great deal more accepted and as Bilbo he had never had a reason to not put a reassuring hand on someone hand or shoulder and he saw no reason to stop now. The heat of Sherlock's hand shocked him, but it subsided quickly enough that perhaps he imagined it, but he did not imagine the way the man flinched on the contact.

"It's going to be okay. I promise. You'll meet everyone and...they'll likely think your an arse and hate you like everyone in THIS lifetime, but- but I'll vouch for you. I'll make them see." John was sure that something rather traumatic had happened, but just as sure he wouldn't get it out of his former flat mate.

Sherlock blinked at him and then barked out a rough laugh that held nothing of humor in it.

"I very much doubt that your vouching for me will help in the matter," his eyes hazed golden again for a second and his voice was hollow with some long ago pain.

"What happened?" John might as well try, "I'm sure it wasn't entirely your fault, or, maybe it was sparked by your need to be bloody cleverer than everyone else and show off." Trying to tease it out of him, at least a tidbit of information. Sherlock not only didn't take the bait but the other man stood, pulling away from him to stare moodily out of the window in the empty street.

"I suppose you could say it wasn't completely my fault...I wasn't aware of who I really was yet." his tone was contemplative, low and...tired. John got up and followed him to the window, looking out onto the silent street with him.

"When this is over, If I'm not devoured or incinerated... We could go back to the Shire? You'd... Well, you wouldn't love it, really, you'd be bored out of your mind. But- but you could still stay with me. In Bag End. The place is plenty big... bit too big for just me, really." John ignored Sherlock's far too amused chuckle over getting eaten or burned and smirked faintly.

"In need of a flat mate again?" Light and flippant and John shrugged.

"I could use one." Said sincerely. Sherlock looked him over a moment before looking back out the window.

"If I live through to the end of your adventure, perhaps I could find a way to do so." He didn't sound very confident and the words sent a chill through John.

He looked at him, seeing the pain and the loneliness and the hopelessness and felt something in him start to break. Sherlock was laid as bare as he ever was before him and it hurt. He took a deep breath and gave into another impulse. After another glance out the window, he looked at his friend's hand, and slipped his own in to it. Holding firm as he knew that Sherlock's first reaction would be to flinch away.

As expected the man flinched at the touch, blinking down at their hands. He stared for a full minute as he forced his brain into functioning again...and didn't pull away.

"When you find me John, you remember what you know of me." Sherlock looked back up at him, and haunted, was the only word for the expression in his eyes. John merely squeezed the other man's hand lightly.

"Even when I didn't actually remember you I never quite forgot." He chuckled, "I don't think I could." Apparently he'd said the right thing if the slight relaxing of Sherlock's shoulders was anything to go by. John didn't fight the smile at that tiny little triumph, but it dropped away with the twitch of a pointed ear as sounds that could only be from the real world intruded upon the dream.

"I think I'm going to be waking up in a moment," there was a slight tremor in his voice that this time he did nothing to suppress, "I...I don't want to, not now. Not that we've started talking and I know this isn't just a dream or my imagination and its not just memories any longer..." he was nearly clinging to Sherlock's hand and the detective locked eyes with him.

"When you sleep again, I will be here." The sheer amount of effort is clearly took for Sherlock to say those words gave John the courage to let go.

"Yes...You will be. Sherlock Holmes, in 221B Baker Street." the flat began to blur and slip away from him and the last thing he saw of the dream was Sherlock's pale blue eyes flaring into fiery gold.

Bilbo Baggin's opened his eyes to a wave of disorientation. He lay still a moment as the dwarves moved about him, reconnecting to the waking world after a night spend with Sherlock.

"Come on Burglar! The day's started!" Boffur's voice hailed him get up and the hobbit grudgingly obliged.

"The sun's not even up yet..." The words were not so much a complaint as plaintive, but they got a rough chuckle.

"But Durin's Day is fast approaching and we must reach the mountain by then or all is lost." Balin's insistence was almost gentle and Bilbo sighed and rolled his bedding up as the dwarves about him broke down the camp. Only then did he notice that he could feel...something across the slightly painful bond that he knew led to Sherlock, reassurance, anticipation. His flat mate was waiting.

"How fared your dreams this past night Mr. Baggins?" Gandalf's voice shocked him out of his reverie and the hobbit blinked up at him. He'd nearly forgotten he'd spoken to the wizard about the dream before he'd gone off to sleep.

"It's not just dreams," wonder in his voice and that link was a reassuring reminder of that fact, "It's really him. My friend from before...he's, he's alright but he's lonely, so very lonely even if he wouldn't say the words. He's... Oh, Gandalf, he's tortured by it. And by something he's done. That he did when he didn't realize... I want to help him." his voice grew stronger as he spoke, and he felt that bubble of John Watson's courage rise within him. Gandalf watching him, worrying but proud of the tiny hobbit.

"I know you do, that is how your heart is. I will provide you what I assistance I can." And that was all he could say but it seemed to be enough as the hobbit beamed at him and raced ahead to catch up with the others. The wizard followed slowly, his mind churning over this new development.

* * *

Thanks to everyone that favorited and followed and reviewed!

Couple of things. First, the obligatory I don't own anything yadda yadda, blather blather.

Second, I'm sure there are questions as to the translation of the title. Literally it translates from Sindarin to 'Study of Bonds'. On that note, gwaedh means a few other things, oath, compact and a variation of the word means friendship, so it is a study of different types of bonds.

Yeah I put too much thought into the title.

Anyway, read, enjoy, review. Depending on my beta readers is when I'll have the next chapter up, hopefully within a few days to a week.


	3. Chapter 2

Bilbo did not dream that night, nor the next. The hobbit put it from his mind, assuming that Sherlock had fallen again into his habit of not sleeping for days on end. However, he could not help the worry he felt, and only relaxed as he felt the faintest stirrings of reassurance from the other end of the aching link to his former flat mate. The night the party finally lay down to rest in the comfortable warmth of Beren, Lord of the Bear Folk's home. The reassurance had followed the hobbit all through the day, mingled with anticipation. Bilbo laid his head to sleep eagerly that night, knowing that Sherlock would be waiting in the dream world for him.

He opened his eyes in the dream world, standing in the living room as if he had never left. John only had time to notice that Sherlock was not there before the light filtering in from the windows went out and then returned with the strangest noise, as if something massive had passed overhead. Nothing but clear sky was revealed when he went to look out and he forgot the phenomenon as the door to the flat opened and Sherlock strolled in. The taller man paused, pale eyes raking over him. His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile and John was suddenly aware that his feet were still hobbit large and his hair still tumbled around his face in messy curls. John couldn't stop his skin from heating as he attempted to make himself look normal.

"Why can't I look normal?" He grumbled out and Sherlock snorted, pulling his coat and scarf off and hanging them up.

"Normal is relative." His slightly predatory pale eyes flickered over John again, "I don't know why you're bothering to try."

"I...It feels off when I'm," he paused to think of the best word to use. "Partially like this, and you're still you." John rubbed the back of his neck, tugging a little on the curls in annoyance. To further that irritation his flat mate merely shrugged, looking unconcerned.

"Would you rather the setting be your current home then?" There was a touch of eagerness in his otherwise emotionless voice.

"No!" John snapped out the word and then winced, "No...I'd...I'd rather save that. I want to show you the Shire in the real world." His voice grew softer through the words, trailing off as he noticed the way Sherlock's shoulder's were tense.

"If you wish." He was clearly, to John, trying to sound indifferent as he settled onto the couch. But before the doctor could ask. The detective continued speaking.

"What have you been doing the past few days to fill you with such awe?" John blinked at him.

"Just...how many of my emotions do you feel?" He was half afraid of the answer and Sherlock tilted his head at him.

"Before we both remembered there was nothing. Now, however...Anything strong, which lately seems to be all of them. And I know you felt my anticipation upon going to sleep; I felt yours in response clearly enough. " His deep baritone was entirely neutral and seemed to ignore the shock that was clearly painted on his friend's face.

John swallowed and nodded, taking a slow breath. They could deal with the fallout of this kind of link later. He settled into his usual chair and told Sherlock, in great detail, what he had been doing the past few days. Told him of Beorn, of the strange house in the woods and creatures that tended them there. His prior enthusiasm returned quickly throughout the narrative.

"He's actually a bear! A bear! I asked Gandalf. He's the last of his kind. He keeps the woods safe... well, the boarders of Mirkwood. It's supposed to be called Greenwood, but now it's... It's so dark they call it Mirkwood." Through it all Sherlock merely leaned forward, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He was giving John every bit of his attention, and not once did his pale eyes blink as the other spoke. At this end of it he nodded, settling back a touch.

"That explains the emotional rollercoaster then." Something flickered through his expression, gone quickly, "Though at least it wasn't fear..." His gaze had fallen away from John and he didn't seem to realize he'd spoken aloud. For John's part, irritation spiked and he glared, insulted and a little hurt.

"Sorry to bother you with my fear." Annoyance made the words sharp and Sherlock blinked at him, "I know you're tired of it, so was Thorin. But if I can make him respect me I suppose there's hope for getting you to again." A trace of self disgust entered his tone, though mostly drowned by frustrated anger and he brushed a hand over his pointed ears.

"I wasn't calling you weak, idiot." Sherlock's words were sharply snapped out with a glare to accompany them, "I was just tired of not knowing why you were afraid." John looked away from the stormy expression on his flat mate's face.

"Well you do now. Being attacked, about to get eaten or sliced apart or maimed at every turn. Nearly smashed on a bloody giant's knee." There was a snarl at the words, deep and guttural and John did not look up quickly enough to see Sherlock's eyes flare golden.

"And nothing I can do about it." His voice was sharp and biting and angry, with that odd little possessive note John thought he had imagined the previous dreaming. That snarl had him worried, and he hastened to reassure him.

"You don't have to. I'm having the others teach me to properly use my sword and they're protecting me well enough." John smiled faintly, "Fili and Kili seem to have adopted me as the company pet of sorts, more the mascot than anything I supposed. And Balin and I are getting on well enough, we have some rather good conversations." He chuckled, "Nothing like ours used to be of course but they're still good. And Thorin keeps a close eye on me." The reassurance didn't seem to satisfy Sherlock, but he did relax back against the couch with a grumble.

"Of course your conversations are nothing like ours, I doubt any one of the dwarves has an intellect anywhere near to matching mine." Sherlock's voice held a faint note of derision that had John frowning.

"Balin's not an idiot you know. I'll bet his intellect is greater than mine. You'd probably like him if you took the time and didn't start off with your usual snark." John stood and wandered over to the window, dark gaze flickering over the vacant street.

"I didn't notice last time, but there aren't any people out there any longer, not since we've stopped just remembering...Everything looks the same, just, empty." He laughed softly, a touch strained, "It's like we're the only ones in the whole world." Sherlock snorted.

"Of course we are, this is a dream and we did not think to attempt to add the rest of the annoying masses that are dubbed humanity. Why waste the brain power populating the world when the only ones of interest are here?" John flushed slightly and turned to face him.

"Right then..." He coughed to clear his throat, "So, you've caught up with me. I don't know anything about you... What sorts of things have you done? I know there's... something you don't want to tell me, so don't. But what about before that? Childhood? Growing up? Didn't have Mycroft to bother with this time I wager."

"I've been alone for a very long time. I'm still alone. There really isn't anything to tell, John." Any expression on Sherlock's face had shut entirely down at the questioning. John creased his brow, sitting back in his chair and leaning forward.

"But there has to be something. What about...Do you at least eat now? You hardly ate at all unless I pestered you into it." He might not be able to pry much of Sherlock's new past out of him but he knew that question would at least be answered.

"I eat rarely," He seemed amused, "Though a great deal when I do convince myself to and I do not require food often when I am not active." There was something odd in the way Sherlock answered that but John let it slide. He nodded.

"Well that's something at least, you seem to sleep a bit more than you used to." That got a snort.

"I'm too bored to do anything else."

"Of course you are," John knew he was grinning and didn't bother to try to stop, "No major crimes to solve, or experiments to do?" Sherlock growled again and shook his head, flopping back against the couch.

"So. Utterly. Bored!"

"Except here." The detective sat up sharply at John's words, pale eyes piercing him.

"Except here." Said as a wary agreement, "And when I am trying to puzzle out what you could be going through to match your emotions."

"You'd probably be better suited at it than me." John laughed suddenly, "Then again the Dwarves might have killed you by now if we were switched. Hell, they'd have left you back at Bag End." The doctor didn't notice the way Sherlock twitched and his face twist for just a second before the expression whipped smooth.

"I'm quite sure they would have..."

"I wonder...If I could show you..." The television caught his eye and after a moment's consideration he stood and flipped it on, grinning as the screen lit up as if watching the world through his eyes. John sat back down, noting that Sherlock echoed his grin and leaned forward to watch. The memories played like a first person movie, starting when Bilbo had joined the dwarves on their leaving the Shire. It skipped around a bit, and parts were fuzzy as John strove to remember everything in proper order, lingering over the fight between Gandalf and Thorin, then pausing after the incident in the Troll Glade.

"I still can't believe that worked." Sherlock gave one of his slightly manic, delighted laughs over watching the hobbit trick the trolls into giving up their precious time. John grinned at him and the memories flickered forward. Rivendell, and his exploring, finding murals and the broken blade on its pedestal.

"This one puzzled me for a while. It looked like a mural of their history, but the hilt on the sword looks like the one he's carrying." John gestured to the still image of a painting of Sauron fighting the king of Gondor. "Might be a relic." Sherlock said nothing to this, merely steepled his fingers and continued watching with clear interest as the memories progressed. John didn't notice the faint golden sheen that had come over his flat mate's skin.

The memories moved on, to the passage in the Misty Mountains and the giant's battle. To Bilbo's near abandonment of the dwarves and their capture and his escape from the goblins, all the while with his sword glowing blue. John shuddered.

"This part...One of the worst memories of my life, this life. I think this will haunt me forever." John didn't look away from the screen though and so missed as Sherlock's eyes sheened gold and the pupils slit into thin lines for just a moment. Bilbo's finding of the ring played, and his meeting with Gollum and the subsequent riddle game and the hobbit's discovery of its powers and his escape. John swallowed and glanced to Sherlock.

"Oh... I... I did mention that ring? before? Came in handy later...Good thing I found it." Sherlock's pale eyes glanced to him.

"No. You neglected to mention it even though you were thinking about it enough for it to have followed you into this realm. You were toying with it in your pocket when you first arrived." his voice was cool, emotionless.

"You noticed that?...I- I mean, it doesn't... Doesn't work here. In the dream I don't think. But... that was the first time I'd felt it..."

"Really John, did you expect me to **not **notice?" The taller man was giving him his patented, 'you are a bit of an idiot' look and John flushed slightly.

"It was... I don't know! It's reassuring, touching it, making sure it's there. It really comes in handy."

"You've said that twice now." Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, pale eyes boring holes into John's skin with a slightly predatory intensity before he finally turned back to the telly, jaw clenching every time his flat mate was in danger. The screen went still after the rescue by the Eagles and Thorin's acceptance of the hobbit.

"It felt good to finally know I belonged..." John's face was still a touch red from watching his embrace with the dwarf, "I was proud, you know? To have his approval." Sherlock nodded, staring at the mountain the background of the still screen with an odd look on his face. He tore his gaze from the telly and looked John over, eyes narrowing and a possessive expression flickering over his angled features. John raised a brow at the look.

"Alright what? You get that look every time I talk about my friends."

"Are you entirely surprised?" The possessive look was still there but was now joined by the look that said John was being thick. John blinked at him.

"I just...don't know why you keep doing it." Sherlock growled a little but sat back and the look mostly abated.

"It's nothing." His voice held no warmth and he stood abruptly.

"No its not." John stared at him, "You did this then too. Every time I had a girl here- you got all... You either made fun of me, or you went and you hid. Why?" He stood as well, crossing over to him, "It's worse now. Now, I can definately see it. Mr. 'I Can Read Everyone And Everything', read yourself. Tell me about YOURSELF."

Sherlock went tense, folding his arms across his chest and turning slightly away from him, the odd golden sheen to his skin more pronounced and a growl rumbling softly from his pale throat.

"I would rather not." His voice was cool and stiff. John sighed and shook his head, turning away as well.

"You're shutting down on me again. I used to get so frustrated when you'd do this... Least now people tell me things- People open up. Even when they're angry or annoyed, or can't stand me, they at least say it." There was no anger in the doctor's voice, just tired disappointment.

A snarl echoed through the room, low and thrumming and sharply cut off as the golden sheen vanished and Sherlock's expression went pained.

"I..." He paused, his voice a low growl, "I have been in this world and completely alone for longer than I care to contemplate, John." The words were said almost like they should have been an apology, and for Sherlock, they nearly were. They were enough to have John turning back to face him, worry creasing his brow as he knew that that sound was not human, nor elf, nor any goodly race the hobbit knew of. His step back was unconscious.

"Sorry... I'm sorry... It's just... Even with privilege and family... In a way I was too... I was just happy to have people who accepted me. Who make me want to be better... It takes thirteen of them to do what just running around after you did." He paused and gave a little tired laugh, " Oh, lovely. It takes thirteen dwarves to make me as brave as a single Sherlock."

The coldness left Sherlock's face at that and he smirked, stepping forward, looming and predatory, "And even all of that does not fill the gaping hole in you, does it?" John stared at him, torn between taking a step back and holding his ground. He settled for shuffling back just half a step.

"No. No not really. I love them all like brothers, now, but... It's not the same as having my best friend. Even if you won't tell me everything that's going on in your mind." John's dark eyes held Sherlock's own pale orbs as the detective stared at him. Sherlock nodded and relaxed, stepping away and allowing his flat mate to breathe again.

"Yes well, I'd rather not horrify you with my past misdeeds if that's alright with you, John." The man smirked at him, "Or should I call you Bilbo?" His amusement was back, causing John to frown.

"I'd prefer to be John here. I'm only Bilbo when I'm awake." The affirmation merely got a nod, as Sherlock likely already knew the answer to his own question.

"Then I shall continue to call you John." His tone said that he was likely to continue to do so when they met in the waking world. John sighed.

"Just don't say it in front of the others... It'll be odd to explain why you call me some name that's likely on par with calling a baby 'Hashtag' in the old life." That got him a smirk.

"Well enough, though I want you to still call me Sherlock. I would rather," he paused, "distance myself how I can from what I was." He sounded almost pained. John let it be and nodded with a smile.

"I don't think I could call you anything else. Besides, by this world's standards it's not that odd of a name..." He trailed off with a sigh as sounds from outside began to intrude.

"I'm getting woken up, I'll see you soon?" Hopeful and resigned to waking. Sherlock nodded.

"I'll be here." The detective's tone said that he didn't want John to go, but he stepped back regardless. John smiled at him, reaching for his hand and squeezing, feeling Sherlock respond in kind before the dream world faded away.

* * *

It was brought to my attention that I had the name of the Bear Lord wrong. Oops. Well its fixed now.


	4. Chapter 3

It was several days before the hobbit returned to the dream scape, and from his end the link was flooded with fear and panic that Sherlock's responding reassurance did nothing to abate. When John finally did appear in the flat, he found himself snapping upright from the couch, heart racing and breathing so hard he was near hyperventilation. His hair was curly, ears pointed, and hobbit feet were as prominent as the golden ring sitting uselessly around his finger.

"NO!...No no no... I nodded off!" His voice held a hysterical edge of mania and exhaustion.

Abruptly Sherlock was there, skin and eyes golden and pupils thin slits. "John?" His voice was rough and almost as panicked as John's was, having been subjected to the same fear the last few days and being unable to quell it nor knowing its origin.

"Where are you? What's going on?" It was the least composed John had seen Sherlock in a very long time but it wasn't nearly enough to distract him from his flat mate's appearance. The doctor flattened himself against the back of the couch, nearly gaping.

"Good Lord! What the- what's wrong with your skin? What happened to your eyes?!" The words were out with no passing through a mental filter and were almost immediately regretted. Sherlock froze and snarled at him, bearing a mouthful of sharp teeth.

"You've not slept in four days of near constant terror and you ask ME what's wrong?!" The words were sharply snarled, and incredulous. John yelped at the teeth and scrambled back, falling from the couch. He stumbled to his feet and rubbed at his head with the heels of his hands.

"I don't have time for this! They need me..." His eyes squeezed shut and it was clear that he wasn't thinking completely clearly at the moment as he repeated 'wake up' half a dozen times, as if trying to get himself to do just that as he paced back and forth. Sherlock stared at him a moment then twisted, grabbing his wrists in strong, slender hands like hot iron bands and forcing him back down onto the couch. He glared at John, catlike golden eyes flaring hotly.

"Stop that! You can't force yourself to wake up like that and we both know it." His voice was a sharp snarl, "Where are you? I," he hesitated just a second, "I might be able to come and help you if you're close enough."

John fought him, wrestling back a faint fear of Sherlock as he tried desperately to get back up.

" I have to do something! We lost Gandalf! We don't know where he is and..." He groaned in frustration as talking was too slow to explain and with a glare at the telly it flared to life. It showed Sherlock how Gandalf had left them abruptly to tend to something else, and how once they were in Mirkwood they were attacked by the Spides, all but Bilbo taken. He had to rescue them before the giant arachnids could eat them all. Then the capture by the Wood Elves. As it played Sherlock sat back to watch, skin and eyes slowly returning to normal.

"I- I had my ring... I was the only one they didn't take." he went still, eyes closed and shivering, clearly on the verge of a meltdown, "Thorin needs my help, Sherlock, I'm sorry! He needs me- THEY all need me to get them out... I can get the key, I know it, But I can't... I just needed to close my eyes..." Sherlock looked back to him and took a deep breath. He hesitated a moment before leaning forward, threading his long fingers through John's curly hobbit hair. After another moment of hesitation he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against John's.

"Do you want me to come and find you? I can feel the direction you're in and," Sherlock's eyes flickered, "I can guarantee that if I come the elves will look to you and your dwarves no longer." His pale eyes were closed now. John closed his own eyes and took a deep breath at the words and contact, forcing himself to calm down. It took a minute, but he finally settled, relaxing into Sherlock's touch.

"No. No, I just... I've been going, nonstop. Adrenalin. Fear. Only been able to pick food from tables to eat. My... my body gave out. It had to reset and recharge..." He trailed off, taking a deep breath, " I can do it, but I've got a small, small chance, and so little time, Sherlock." He leaned forward into his flat mate's forehead. Sherlock nodded carefully, head still against John's, before slipping his head forward, mouth nearly against John's ear.

"Wake up." The word is all but whispered but immediately the dreamscape began to splinter apart. John's eyes snapped open.

"What?" The word slipped out even as the dream spiraled away and John was slammed back into the waking world.

The disorientation was as bad as it had been that first night, but there was work to be done and Bilbo had very little time in which to do it. With Sherlock's reassurance and warmth flooding their distant link the hobbit went to work. Through some rather creative means pilfered the key to the cells, and got himself and the dwarves free of the elves. It was several days yet again before the dreamscape opened as he slept. This time, however, he was fully John Watson without a trace of Bilbo when he woke in his bed in the flat.

As promised, Sherlock was waiting for him. The taller man was laying on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling as if in one of those meditative trances while he was furiously thinking, a golden sheen faintly visible on his skin.

"Sherlock?" John sniffed, "Oh lovely, I have a cold here too." Sherlock snorted and sat up, the golden sheen disapearing.

"Just will it gone." Sherlock's voice carried his amused 'you're an idiot' tone. John blinked at him and then concentrated a moment, relaxing as he immediately breathed easier.

"That's better. You're going to laugh at me... When I finally got that key we had to hide in barrels and get sent to Lake Town." He leaned back against the wall, "Caught a blasted cold too." He paused, glancing away, "And to top it off, it's my... Bilbo's birthday. At least we got good food and decent beds this time." John trailed off in a mutter, not noticing how Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

"Lake Town...Esgaroth?" He grinned, "Your birthday? Do tell, how old are you now?" Amusement dripped from his words. John rolled his eyes and looked to him.

"Yes, Lake Town, no one calls it Esgaroth anymore. Are you close?" Avoiding the topic of his age.

"I'm...very close." Sherlock grinned at him, "Don't think I'll let it go that easily, John." The doctor sighed.

"I don't want to tell you. You'll laugh. Especially looking like that here."

"Try me." The words were nearly a laugh already and John threw a half-hearted glare at him, flushing.

"It's just...you were always younger than me." John's words trailed off and Sherlock snorted.

"Well I can guarantee you that I am not this time around." As Sherlock continued to look at him expectantly John just sighed.

"Fifty. There. I'm fifty years old." Sherlock tilted his head.

"That is not very old for a hobbit is it?" There was the faintest trace of distress in his voice that John was sure he imagined.

"No. They're not adults till age thirty-three. Fifty's the right 'respectable' age. When they get married and have children and should be hidden away in their warm, cozy holes." Sherlock snickered and settled back against the couch.

"I am a great deal older than a mere fifty." John smirked at him, but the expression faded away quickly.

"I was sure you were an elf in Mirkwood. I didn't have much time to look but I did try." He ran a hand through his hair, frowning when it lengthened under his fingers. Sherlock gave a tight chuckle in response, shaking his head slightly.

"Were I in Mirkwood I would have found you already and helped you escape when you were there." He sighed, glancing out the window, "You're so close..."

John stared at him a moment, shoving away from the wall and approaching him. Without hesitation he took Sherlock's face in his hands, worried eyes tracing his familiar features. The other man merely looked amused.

"You won't recognize me on sight John. I look a great deal different."

"Quiet." John was in full examination mode, tilting his flat mate's head to one side and then other, frowning as the man looked perfectly human but for the heat of his skin.

"Show me your teeth." It wasn't a request and with a snicker Sherlock bared his very human teeth at him.

"You do realize that this is pointless as this is a dreamscape and I can change my appearance quite easily." Amusement was oozing from the pale man's voice.

"I don't care." John let go of his face and took hold of his arm, shoving his sleeve up, examining it, and then moving onto the other. He put a hand to Sherlock's forehead, checking to see if the heat of his body radiated throughout.

"You're hot to the touch, always hot. Almost like you're feverish constantly but there's no sweat at all..." He trailed off and glared as Sherlock's body promptly cooled down to within normal human range. He took his hand back, and balled his fingers into a fist.

"Stop that."

"I'd rather not." John's glare intensified.

"Sherlock Holmes, I am not in the mood for games, stop it."

"Stop what?" Sherlock's tone oozed innocence and the fight went right of John, hair curling and ears pointing. He collapsed into his chair with a sigh.

"I'm tired of this whole thing, Sherlock...I'm tired of not knowing anything about you now. I just feel..." He trailed off with a shake of his head. His flat mate leaned forward, eyes curious.

"Feel what?" John rubbed the back of his neck, looking away.

"I feel like something is pushing. No. Like it's pulling me closer. I feel like the closer I get to the mountain the more I feel like me. The me you know." Sherlock tilted his head and grinned at him, sharp and predatory.

"I might be in that general area. Come find me."

"I might not be able to, there's so little time." He sighed, "We're heading straight to the mountain soon. We need to be there at the right moment to find the back door to get in."

"There's a back door to Erebor?" John didn't register Sherlock's suddenly too interested tone.

"Yes, its a secret door. Can't be found unless its Durin's day and the exact right time of day."

"Interesting..." the word rumbled around Sherlock's mouth and John finally looked up. The man was grinning at him. His eyes flared molten gold and his pupils slit. He leaned forward.

"Come and find me, John." His tone was almost playful, longing, nearly a purr and bright with anticipation. The doctor flushed red when he realized how close Sherlock had put himself.

"Wake up." The dream splintered and spiraled away before John even had the chance to protest. He broke into the waking world with a sneeze, swearing at his former flat mate. All he could feel though the ever strengthening link was amused anticipation. The next few days were no better, as Sherlock made no appearance in the dream when he slept. The link pulled at him, tugging him towards the mountain even as the party traveled to his base.

He knew Sherlock felt the approach, reassurance and eager anticipation flaring through the link. But beneath it was a slow, deep fear. Bilbo ignored the nagging feeling that he knew the reason for that fear.

* * *

I know its a bit short, but I promise they'll get a good bit longer from here on out. Enjoy and remember that reviews are love.


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